


Distant Deeps

by MKK



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKK/pseuds/MKK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mirror universe, Captain Julian Bashir and First Officer Elim Garak share a cell as prisoners of the Klingon Regent.</p><p>This is an alternate resolution to the fourth season DS9 episode "Shattered Mirror;" it thus departs from the storyline of that episode at several points.  It was also my first fan fiction from way back when the episode was first broadcast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been available online but I really wanted to get it into my AO3 account. I'm currently working on a story that won't be ready for a long time, so this seemed a good time to finally post this since I wouldn't be competing with myself! 
> 
> The thing is, since it was my very first fan fiction, I was dying to revise it, to add things and take things away here or there, but I didn't touch it - not one word. It didn't seem right somehow to do that! So here it is, as is. I wrote it because, at the time, I wasn't aware of anyone exploring the need I saw to get Mirror Garak and Mirror Bashir together - so one day, out of the blue, and to my great shock, for the first time in my life I suddenly realized I had to write it myself! 
> 
> And now, many stories later, I still look back on this little piece of hurt/comfort fanfic with an affectionate but slightly embarrassed eye. But it'll always be my first!

"In what distant deeps or skies  
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?  
On what wings dare he aspire?  
What the hand dare seize the fire?"  
William Blake, "The Tiger," 1794

 

Captain Julian Bashir jumped to his feet as the door to his cell slid open. Standing was purely a reflex action, however; he had no intention of attempting an escape. The bruises on his face and body from his previous two attempts took away his resolve to try it a third time, at least this soon. So he simply looked on, his hands at his sides, his face displaying a mixture of challenge and resignation to the Klingon guards who had so abruptly burst in.

The guards were not alone, however; they were half pushing, half dragging a new prisoner with them. When he was inside the cell, one of the guards quickly sent him sprawling across the bench with a kick to his back. The prisoner landed hard on his stomach, and remained draped across the bench, his knees on the floor, his hands chained behind him. Julian felt a rush of pity for him - he himself had been in much the same position just four days ago. His attempt at engaging the flagship of the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance in battle with nothing more powerful than a raider had not ended well. True, the Rebellion had been able to put a "flagship" of their own, the Defiant, into operation, but the fate of that ship was a complete mystery to Bashir. He had been beamed aboard a smaller vessel and then taken as a prisoner to meet the Klingon Regent. As for Jadzia Dax, his companion on the doomed flight, no one seemed to speak of her or even acknowledge her existence, so Bashir assumed she had somehow managed to avoid capture and had returned to the Defiant. Then too, the Regent's ship had not docked at Terok Nor - perhaps there was hope after all, and the rebels had won their fight, at least for the time being.

Still, the new prisoner could very well be the first of a steady stream of rebel fighters to grace the Regent's cells. Not Dax, however; this one was male, tall and muscular, and at the moment remained hunched over the bench in obvious pain. The two Klingons who had escorted him in sneered something at him in their own language, then said "Enjoy the company - dog," as they slammed the door closed with a grinding shriek.

When their footsteps had died away, Bashir approached the huddled form. The man was still doubled over, breathing hard, but otherwise silent, his head resting on the bunk. Julian Bashir was not compassionate by nature. He was arrogant, overconfident, argumentative, and sometimes even cruel, but very seldom tender or compassionate toward any living soul. A year in the Rebellion hadn't helped to instill gentler virtues in him. If anything, he was even more prone to violent fits of temper as a "freedom fighter" than as a Terran slave processing ore in the bowels of the Terok Nor uridium refinery. In those days, the merest hint of rebellion or insubordination had been brutally put down by the Cardassian overseers. He learned then to defuse his anger by concentrating on his work rather than his feelings. After his escape, though, he embraced the rebels' cause, honing his predilection for sarcasm and casual cruelty to a keen edge. But four days of beatings and starvation in the Alliance ship had begun to dull that edge, thus the unaccustomed pity for his new companion.

The pity died away when, to his horror, Bashir saw that the prisoner was a Cardassian. More than that, he was - or had been - in the military, as his uniform attested. Only the armor over the chest and back was missing. Two large, ugly, violet bruises stood out on either side of his neck ridges, below his chin, as if he had been choked by some device or hand around his neck. In addition, blood had spattered on the floor on either side of him. As Bashir wondered at the circumstances that would reduce a Cardassian to this level, on an Alliance ship no less, the prisoner raised his head slightly, turned, and fixed him with a pained but penetrating blue gaze.

Bashir reflexively took a step backward and then, as realization dawned, he began to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, till he felt almost lightheaded from breathlessness and hunger. Collapsing onto the bench attached to the opposite wall, he managed to choke out "Garak!" before surrendering to another fit of laughter. Garak twisted around so he was lying uncomfortably on his side, against the hard surface. "I'm so glad you find this amusing," he rasped.

"Oh, I do, I do. This makes it all worthwhile. You here, and in that position- " Garak didn't answer, so Bashir continued, "You know we've got your precious Intendant, don't you? But we thought for sure that *you* at least were all cozied up to the Regent now."

"The Regent and I - didn't part the best of friends. Now, if you please, Terran, I'm tired. Keep your ridiculous speculations to yourself." Garak closed his eyes, but Bashir, intent on relishing the moment awhile longer, said, "I would have thought that you especially would have had the Regent eating out of your hand by now. First Officer Garak, feared by all on Terok Nor, certainly feared by *our* pitiful little band of patriots-" Bashir rose and advanced on him, "-and able to bend even our revered Intendant to his wishes." Bashir crouched down and held his face inches away from Garak's closed eyes. "Tell me, how *do* you manage that? Even the implant we've given her doesn't make her submit to *our* will any more easily. But I suppose we're facing a lost cause - I think she's developed a taste for Cardassian whores like you." Garak snarled and tried to stand, but Bashir easily knocked him off balance and he thudded back hard against the bench, panting heavily.

"Oh, come now, Garak, you're really in no condition to fight me. Granted, you may have a fuller stomach than than I have- "

"I assure you, that's not the case," Garak sighed. Something in his tone caused Bashir to look down and notice the dark maroon bloodstains that had spread over the front of Garak's black tunic. "The Regent chose to perform a little - surgery - on me a few days ago."

In spite of himself, Bashir gasped, "My God, didn't they try to fix that?"

"Oh yes, they tried, but not carefully, and not well." Again Garak closed his eyes and slumped to the floor. As Bashir stood gaping at him, the door to the cell was pushed open with a resounding crash and the previous two guards entered. An unappetizing-looking plate of food was slammed down onto each bench, a bottle of water placed on the floor, and the guards withdrew. Garak called out after them but ended up addressing the closing door. Bashir, anticipating food at last, grinned unkindly.

"First meal I've had in four days, and I am truly going to enjoy it. If only I could have gotten away with feeding the Intendant like a dog, too..." Getting no reaction, he sat, took the plate onto his lap, and began hungrily stuffing bits of the overcooked vegetables into his mouth. Garak slowly swiveled around on his knees till he faced his own plate. As he was lowering his head to eat, his chained hands thrust out awkwardly behind his back, Bashir leaped up.

"Here, please let me help you," he sneered, with an oily, solicitous gleam in his eye. "At least where I come from, dogs are supposed to eat on the floor." He grabbed Garak's plate and slid it across the metal floor till it thudded against the cell door. That drew his attention to the water bottle resting nearby. "Oh, I'm sorry - are you thirsty?" Tipping his head back, Bashir let the water flow into his mouth and down the sides of his face, feeling it form rivulets through his long, greasy hair. He'd only been deprived of water a day, but that was long enough; the water was refreshing and delicious. When he had drunk his fill, he bent down and held the bottle near Garak's face. "Here - lap this off the floor as well." Slowly and deliberately, he upended the bottle and let the remaining water splash onto the floor.

Garak, wisely acknowledging the fact that he was being baited, said nothing, but gazed tiredly at his tormentor through half-closed eyes. Bashir retreated to his side of the cell and proceeded to hungrily devour the rest of his meal, laughing uproariously at his own antics. After he had finished and had emitted a loud belch of satisfaction, he leaned back on the narrow metal bed, knees drawn up and feet resting against the wall, and drifted off into a restless sleep. He was dimly aware of the sound of Garak slowly and painfully slithering across the floor to his food, but then heard no more.

 

Hours later, however, he was awakened by the sound and the pungent smell of someone vomiting. Garak was leaning over the edge of his bed, vomit dripping down to the floor as he lay curled up in obvious agony. Bashir made a loud moan of disgust and yelled out, "HEY! SOMEONE! Get him out of here! Get him away from me!" He didn't really know whether his complaint would be heeded but, amazingly, a guard entered the cell within minutes and hauled Garak to his feet. He pushed the staggering Cardassian ahead of him through the doorway, as Bashir screamed "Wait! Is anyone going to clean this up?!" It appeared not. Supressing the urge to gag, Bashir rolled over and faced the wall, but the cell was small and the stench was overpowering, mixing with the previous heady scents of badly cooked food and human body odor. Bashir sat up and put his head between his legs, holding on to his forehead with splayed fingers. His eyes were open, and he couldn't help glancing at the pool of vomit splattered over the rough metal floor. To his shock, the pool was stained here and there with traces of dark red Cardassian blood, mixed in with a few small bits of food from the previous evening's meal. The sight made his stomach lurch. "What did he go and EAT that stuff for, if he felt like that?" The drive for self-preservation must be strong even if not always beautiful.

Bashir eventually slept, despite the odors in the room and his own feelings of nausea. When he was hauled off several hours later for his once-daily toilet break, Garak still had not returned and he found himself slightly uneasy about that. Then he cursed his own weakness and promptly forgot all about him. When Bashir was returned to the cell, the first thing he noted, with relief, was that the floor had been cleaned, at least well enough to remove most traces of the mess. The second thing he noticed was that Garak was back; he seemed pale and remained bound in the same uncomfortable position, however. He looked up as Bashir entered, then looked down as the Klingon guard laughed harshly and propelled Bashir against the far wall and practically into Garak's lap. The gesture took both men by surprise and they nearly fell onto the floor together, but Bashir was able to regain his balance and pushed away from Garak with a snarl. He was used to cruelty from the guards - this particular act, however, bothered him more than the other similar incidents he had so often endured. Why WAS Garak being kept in this cell, anyway? Just what had he done, or not done, to merit it? There was NOTHING in his previous behaviour toward the Terran rebels, Bashir believed, that would cause Garak to be viewed suspiciously by the Regent. So, if he wasn't here as a possible collaborator, then the only other answer must be that he was here for the guards', or the Regent's, amusement. 

Bashir didn't relish the idea that he was helping to provide those animals with entertainment, no matter how hostile his feelings for the Intendant and her (evidently former) second-in-command might have been. Therefore, he did his best all that day to ignore Garak, and Garak, in turn, dozed fitfully on his bed and seemed in no mood to provoke the human, either. But Bashir was all too aware that the uneasy truce couldn't last long. Garak was too devious and cunning to let an opportunity like this pass by, an opportunity to strike back at even one of the Terran rebels who had been making his life with the Intendant difficult. As for Bashir, all he had to do was close his eyes to hear and see Garak in all his former glory, ordering another punishment or whipping or even execution, with that insidious grin on his face and faint amusement reflected in his cold Cardassian eyes. Bashir detested him.

As a result, his bad mood fed on itself until, when the pitiful supper was again brought in, Bashir was ready to hand Garak another dose of humiliation as well. But he restrained himself. The only thing that annoyed him more than Garak was the thought of the Klingon guards treating them *both* like a couple of Terran pigs. Bashir ate his meal quietly, glancing now and then at Garak's pitiful attempts to take the food into his mouth as he leaned over his plate. Interesting, gratifying sight - too bad Dax wasn't able to enjoy it, or O'Brien. Ah, yes, or the Intendant! No, that was no good; knowing her, she probably HAD seen that sight before. Bitch. Bashir finally spoke up.

"I find it *fascinating*, Mr. Garak, that they don't seem willing to allow you the use of your arms any more. Tell me, any idea why that should be?" he grinned unctuously. "Granted, it IS amusing, but I was just curious."

Garak swiveled around and glared at him malevolently. Bashir didn't even expect him to answer, but he suddenly said, "I suppose, Terran, that I proved a little too dangerous for them. My attempt on the Regent's life was almost a success." He emphasized the word "life" with a snarl, but Bashir didn't know whether or not to believe any of it; the improbability of Garak attacking the Regent was too great. "I see," he answered noncommitally. "So why continue to chain your arms?"

"The Regent was persuaded that this was a safer alternative."

"Alternative to what?"

"To cutting them off. For some reason, he wants me alive."

So that explained the quick response to Garak's illness the night before. Bashir again felt a stab of pity for the usually so fearsome Cardassian, kneeling on the floor now with his head bowed and his own dried blood staining the front of his tunic. He suppressed the feeling with a growl of disgust and turned his attention back to his own barely palatable meal. The food obviously looked as if it had been scraped off of some other plates; best not to worry too much about its origin, however, Bashir mused. His attention returned to Garak when he noticed him shuffling on his knees to the water bottle near the door.

"And just how do you intend to manage that?"

Garak didn't answer. Bashir persisted, "You spill that container, Garak, and I'll smash it over your head."

"Then I suggest you give me a little assistance, Terran."

"You're joking." Bashir jumped up and grabbed the bottle before Garak reached it, then took a long, delicious drink from it and held it enticingly near Garak's face. "You're thirsty, I'll bet."

Garak sighed. "You have no idea."

"Now, I could pour this out on the floor for you again, or I could pour it into your plate and you could lap it up like a dog. Which do you prefer?"

A pause. Then Garak looked up into Bashir's face and said evenly, "You could hold the bottle for me."

Bashir, whether from surprise or compassion, lowered the bottle and tilted it toward Garak's mouth. He let him take a long drink, too; he felt frozen to the spot, as if the moment would stretch out forever and he was too fascinated to end it. But when Garak stopped drinking, Bashir retreated haughtily to his side of the cell, taking the bottle with him. He raised it to his lips to finish it off, and then suddenly remembered with shock that GARAK had just been drinking from that same bottle. Bashir threw it against the door. The bottle wasn't breakable, but it rebounded off of the door and hit the opposite wall of the cell, spilling the rest of the water in the process. Garak looked up angrily.

"You know, I would have been happy to finish that. I left it for you."

"Well, I decided I didn't want it."

"Obviously." He paused. "In the future, Terran, let me know when you plan to hurl projectiles at me."

"Gladly," Bashir snarled. "And my name, MISTER Garak, is not 'Terran,' it's Bashir. CAPTAIN Bashir." Garak gave a short bark of laughter, enraging Bashir, who leaped to his feet and advanced on him.

"Are you mocking me?"

"Certainly not, 'Captain,' whatever would give you that impression?" Bashir felt a flash of anger toward the infuriatingly grinning Cardassian, which mixed with his own ambivalent feelings toward him and the plight they were both in. But the anger won out. He reached back and slapped Garak hard across the mouth, then smirked happily as Garak stared at him in surprise, dark red blood on his gray lips.

"Oh, I don't know, Garak," he drawled. "I just seem to feel that way. You tell me - was I wrong?"

Garak growled and rushed headlong at Bashir, but in the cramped cell and with his arms immobilized, he could do very little. Bashir easily eluded him and then propelled him into the opposite wall, where he remained, breathing heavily. As both men prepared for another move, Bashir heard a sound in the corridor, a cough or the scrape of a boot on the metal floor. He froze. Here he was, doing the thing he had vowed not to do, putting on a show for the Klingons like an animal battling a predator. So he simply stared at Garak across the tiny cell, and Garak stared back, comprehension dawning in his blue eyes. He had evidently heard the sound, too. Without a word, the two of them sank down onto their bunks and warily regarded the door.

Some time later, the remains of the meal were removed and both men were taken out separately for the toilet break. As Bashir waited in the cell, alone, he suddenly grinned with delight at the thought of Garak attempting that break without being able to use his arms. How would he manage that? Bashir vowed to ask him, then decided he didn't really want to know, assuming he'd even GET any kind of answer for his trouble except a kick to the stomach. He almost laughed out loud. The stories he was accumulating to take back to Terok Nor were absolutely incomparable. For the umpteenth time, he closed his eyes and imagined this scenario being played out in his days as a slave. If he had only known then... It almost made his capture bearable.

Almost. The thought made him uneasy, however. Very little attention was being paid to him, and though Bashir didn't, deep down, have a very high opinion of his own importance to the cause, he also knew that the Regent would undoubtedly welcome the chance to glean information from a rebel fighter. So why was he being all but ignored? Could it be that so many rebels had already been captured that there was little necessity for information from just one more? Or could it be that his usefulness lay in some other area? Garak - if the Regent was more angry at HIM, then of course a grueling period in a cell with one of his former Terran slaves would be an exquisite punishment. Bashir again flinched at the thought of providing this kind of amusement; then again, Garak deserved a lot more than the petty bickering and inconveniences that had already been dished out to him by his Terran scourge. Bashir grinned and drew his knees more tightly against his chest. When Garak entered, he turned toward him with the same grin but said nothing.

 

The next two days were uneventful. Tiredness and ever-present hunger were taking their toll, even on the stronger Cardassian, and Bashir found that his eagerness to bait and annoy Garak was beginning to take second place to his eagerness to somehow resolve the fact of his imprisonment. He unsuccessfully questioned the guards, even asked to see the Regent himself, but was ignored. To fight off the feeling of depression that was threatening to take him over, he began planning another escape. But now with two or more ever-watchful guards always accompanying him on his daily forays down the hall, disruptors trained on him, and extra guards stationed outside the cell every time food was brought in, it seemed virtually impossible to ever take one by surprise again. His irritation began to re-focus itself onto his cellmate. He had been continuing to help Garak with the water bottle; why, he wasn't sure. But it was most likely because the thought of standing idly by and watching another living creature, even a Cardassian, even *Garak*, die of thirst, was too much for Bashir to take.

Still, having to hold the bottle while Garak drank from it like a Terran calf was beginning to get on Bashir's nerves. It also gave him an idea for a new torment, however, and he welcomed the distraction. The next mealtime, Garak was again crouched down on the floor while drinking from the bottle that Bashir held with one hand. He idly laid the other on Garak's back, on the scales that ran down from just under his black hair. Garak seemingly took no notice, so Bashir began lightly massaging several of the gray scales with his fingertips, gently pressing them in a circular motion even while trying to control his own feelings of revulsion. All the while, he waited eagerly for Garak's outraged cry of humiliation. Smiling to himself in anticipation as he stared dreamily at the opposite wall, he suddenly noticed that the Cardassian was pushing the bottle away but remained crouched at his feet, his head bent forward.

"Oh my GOD!" Bashir screamed inwardly. "He LIKES that!! The damned Cardassian bastard LIKES that!" He groaned in disgust and brought one knee up hard to Garak's chest, knocking him off balance. Then he threw himself onto his own bunk and glared suspiciously at Garak, who was slowly settling back against the opposite wall. "What a fool! WHAT a FOOL!" Bashir berated himself. "That is a CARDASSIAN, you stupid, ignorant fool." The sexual appetites of the Cardassian overseers were legendary; Bashir himself had been the victim of more than one casual expression of "affection" when he worked in the mines. But he had somehow imagined that Garak's shame at being forced to submit to a human, a "Terran," would outweigh his natural inclinations. Instead, he now feared that his miscalculation could cost him the upper hand in his little power game with Garak, and cost him dearly, too.

Garak, however, gave him no evidence of that, but the smirk he wore the rest of that evening was enough to make Bashir almost scream with anger and frustration. He knew he couldn't let Garak go on thinking that he, Bashir, had been the one humiliated, but at the same time he didn't relish the thought of having to replay the water bottle scene over and over again. The following evening, he refused to help him drink, then relented and let him take a few swallows of water before pulling the bottle away. But even the very short period of physical proximity unnerved him; Bashir knew he'd have to assert himself or risk becoming Garak's own little object of amusement. As Garak lay uncomfortably on his bed in his usual sleeping position, his face pressed into the angle formed by the bench and the wall, his arms resting against his back, Bashir stood up and approached him.

"Mister Garak."

Garak stirred and turned to look at him. Bashir dropped down and sat back on his heels. "I just wanted you to know - I'm very glad you're here."

"Are you?"

"Yes. I would never admit this to anyone, not even to myself, but it wasn't the Intendant I had wanted the rebels to capture - it was you."

Garak made an expression of disgust. Bashir sidled a little closer, till he could almost feel Garak's breath against his face. He tried to compose his thoughts, steeled himself, and then leaned over Garak and put his hands on the ridges on either side of his neck. Drawing himself all the way down to Garak's face, he breathed, "I've always been - interested - in you," and then brought his lips closer to the Cardassian's. The eyes that stared back at him were suspicious and cruel, but Garak didn't flinch. Neither did Bashir, who smiled, pulled back slightly, and spit a shower of saliva into Garak's face.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Garak screamed in outrage and lunged forward against Bashir, slamming him backward off his feet. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" he roared. "DON'T COME NEAR ME!"

"You're hardly in a position to dictate that," Bashir interrupted, panting, but Garak was livid. He cursed volubly in Kardasi, then managed to choke out, "I have been tolerant of you, Terran. I have done nothing, NOTHING, to hurt you."

It was true; he *had* done nothing. Bashir felt a faint, almost imperceptible trickle of remorse. Why would Elim Garak not seek to take advantage of this situation, this imprisonment, and assert his power in some way? Even with his arms bound, he could still be a formidable presence. Could it be that he, even better than Bashir, understood the value of uniting against a common enemy? Bashir pushed the thought away and concentrated instead on Garak's saliva-spattered face. "You, Garak, haven't STOPPED hurting me since you BECAME First Officer. Anything I can do to you here is just a pitiful imitation of what should REALLY be done to you - I'm acting on behalf of all Terrans."

"Then I bow to the nobility of your cause," Garak sneered, inclining his head slightly and trying to wipe his face on his sleeve. His words only served to enrage Bashir further; he was about to say something more when he noticed Garak's glance dart to the cell door. He looked up as well and saw a pair of Klingon eyes at the tiny opening. Great. Wonderful. With a loud, disgusted sigh, he retreated again to his narrow bunk and collapsed onto it.

He never thought he'd sleep, not in his present, irritated mood, but awoke several hours later, lying on his side, his arm completely numb. As he sat up and began massaging the arm, his gaze drifted to Garak, sound asleep just a few feet away. He was lying on his stomach, as usual, the offending scales silhouetted in the dim overhead lighting. Bashir found himself focusing on them, fascinated. He felt like a fool for his pompous words to Garak earlier - "I'm acting on behalf of all Terrans," indeed. He was nothing more than a fly, buzzing around Garak's face, just waiting to be swatted - and the amused expression in the guard's eyes probably meant that he WOULD be, eventually. Oh well - there was nothing he could do about it now except salvage what little dignity he had left, carry on, and maybe try to act like an officer this time. He studied the scales across the back of Garak's neck again. Strange things, really, not as repugnant as it would appear at first, but rather soft and pliable to the touch. Not like crocodile hide at all, more like -

Bashir closed his eyes. "Yes, fine, Captain, keep thinking about his damned body. Maybe, if you ask nicely, he'll show you his scars, too." He winced. "I ought to be thinking instead about ripping the damned scales OFF, one by one, with my fingers." Physically impossible as that plan undoubtedly was, contemplating it gave Bashir a kind of guilty pleasure. He'd hook Garak around the neck from behind with one arm, then pull him closer till he could feel his strong Cardassian body struggling against him. Then he'd run his fingers slowly, gently, tantalizingly along the edge of a scale, finally gouging his nails under it and beginning to pull... Or maybe he WOULDN'T pull, not right away, maybe he'd run his tongue along the edge first... Garak would never dream what was going to happen next...

"STOP!" He jumped up and began running his fingers through his straggly beard. Damn - he wished they'd let him shave. He smelled terrible, too - the stench, in fact, was getting so overpowering that even he was becoming disgusted by it. No telling how it was affecting Garak - not that it mattered anyway, he reminded himself. Garak was welcome to smell the lovely perfume of a rebel fighter or go rot in hell, as far as Bashir was concerned. Still, with their smooth, hairless skin and low body temperature, Cardassians seemed much better able to retain their dignity in a long imprisonment. Garak, in fact, looked no different than he had when he had first been dragged into the cell, except of course that the pallor in his already gray skin had increased. In fact, it seemed to Bashir that it had increased dramatically in the last day or two. As he stood, glaring down at him, Garak coughed and opened his eyes.

He attempted to raise himself to a sitting position but was forced to make several attempts, his chained arms providing very little leverage. Then he stared hazily at the figure in front of him.

"Are you all right?" Bashir asked him, puzzled.

"I'm getting tired of your constant attention, 'Captain,'" he muttered.

"You don't look too good."

"Neither do you, 'Captain.'"

"Fine," Bashir thought. Arrogant Cardassian bastard - I try to show a little concern for him, a little kindness... Of course, the fact that he had spit in Garak's face just a few hours earlier dulled his resentment toward the ingratitude somewhat. He began to pace restlessly around the cell, three steps in each direction. Garak slumped forward and tried to rest his head on his knees, his bound arms pulling his shoulders back too far for comfort. 

As the day wore on, he withdrew even further, curling up on his side and facing the wall. When food arrived, he made no move to touch it, completely ignoring the guards who had brought it in. Bashir, occupied with his own meal, watched him intently. He finally called over to him, his mouth full of food, "Garak! Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Garak didn't turn around or answer. Bashir repeated, "You'd better eat something. When they take it away, that's all you're going to get all day." Garak just shook his head slightly.

"Fine. If you can't eat, you can't eat. Maybe you ought to tell them you're sick." Garak shook his head again, a little more vehemently. Bashir struggled to suppress another of the by-now-familiar stabs of pity. He set his plate down and approached the Cardassian.

"Listen, I'LL tell them. If you're sick, I don't want you in here. I don't want you puking all over me like you did last time." He paused for a few seconds and his expression changed. "What's wrong, anyway? Do you know?" No answer. "Do you want anything to drink?" Garak shook his head.

"Ah... you REALLY don't look so good." From his closer vantage point, he could see that Garak was shivering, trembling almost imperceptibly all throughout his body. The cell temperature was slightly cool to Bashir but not uncomfortable. But to a Cardassian, especially a sick Cardassian, it was most likely freezing. Bashir continued to watch him. When the guards returned, he called out, "That man is ill."

One of them grunted as he gathered up the plates. "I said, that man is ill. You're so concerned about keeping him alive- "

The guard stepped over to Garak and pulled his head back roughly by the hair, then studied him for a second or two.

"He'll live."

"Fine, doctor," Bashir muttered under his breath. The guards left; Garak curled up again and began to shiver more noticeably. Bashir tried not to look at him - he HAD been told not to interfere, after all. And, damn it, he wouldn't interfere - let the mighty First Officer of Terok Nor suffer. It was probably just a little food poisoning anyway, or some Klingon virus. Nothing that Garak couldn't handle, and certainly nothing like the punishments he had been so fond of meting out.

And yet - Bashir was finding it increasingly difficult to isolate himself. Emotions he couldn't reconcile warred within him, ranging from pity to hatred, fear to compassion. His fellow captive had begun to disturb him profoundly, in some way he couldn't even quite identify. But Garak had always been a skillful manipulator - was this new situation any different? It would be wisest not to fall into one of his many humiliating traps. Make a fool of yourself now, Captain, Bashir told himself, and Garak will be only too happy to personally take over the job later. So he turned toward the wall and buried his head in his arms.

He awoke to the sounds of labored breathing - Garak was now shaking almost uncontrollably and was leaning against the wall. Bashir instinctively rushed over to him. 

"I'm calling the guard."

"No, no- " he gasped. "I'm just cold."

"Garak, you're ill. Maybe VERY ill."

"I said leave me alone!" He tried ineffectively to push Bashir away. "I don't want them near me."

Bashir perched on the edge of the bunk and tentatively extended a hand toward Garak's shoulder, then quickly withdrew it. "Garak- " he faltered, then began again, "Garak, please - I mean, it could be something serious."

Garak turned and regarded him suspiciously. "Why should you care?" His voice was ragged as the spasms shook him.

"Well - I don't, not really." They sat in comparative silence for a few minutes, with only the sound of Garak's shallow breathing filling the cell. He was still shivering, unable even to wrap his arms around his body. Bashir shifted closer to him, but Garak was oblivious to the movement, his eyes closed and his teeth almost chattering. Bashir took a deep breath and then placed one hand on Garak's shoulder. The Cardassian flinched at the touch but didn't pull away, so Bashir hesitantly circled Garak's broad shoulders with the arm, keeping the pressure feather-light. Even so, he felt Garak's muscles tense under him. His expression remained passive, however, easing a little of Bashir's uncertainty. He remained in that position for a long while, not daring to move again or say a word.

Eventually, he became too tired to sit up any longer; Garak had been resting against the wall, but Bashir was reluctant to lean, in turn, against Garak. So he crossed the cell to his own bunk and curled up to sleep. Garak's condition was little changed the next day. He seemed tortured by the cold, though, and a sheen of clammy perspiration clung to his face and neck. When the guards again brought food, Bashir didn't bother to speak but secretly hoped they'd take notice of their prisoner and show some concern, as they had done in the beginning. Nothing happened, however; it was as if Garak had been taken off the Regent's list of priorities.

Garak again refused to eat, or even to look at the miserable offering. Bashir couldn't blame him. He decided, though, that he somehow had to persuade him to drink a little water or he'd very soon be staring across the cell at a corpse. So he picked up the bottle and stood in the center of the room, hesitating to approach the shivering form. Garak was once more sitting partially upright, leaning against the wall. Bashir gingerly sat down next to him and, with somewhat more confidence than he had felt the previous evening, he put one hand on his shoulder. With the other, he brought the bottle up close to Garak's mouth.

"Here. Drink."

Garak shook his head. "Come on - DRINK," Bashir pleaded, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Just a little. What do you want to do, DIE here among these miserable Klingons? Come on - just a little." He put the neck of the bottle against Garak's gray lips - still no response.

"PLEASE, Garak." I'm begging you now, he thought. Don't you see that I'm begging you? Isn't that what you like? Doesn't that count for anything with you? Garak's phrase came back to him, unbidden. 'Why should you care?' Why did he, after all? Bashir had no answer for that - he only knew that he suddenly DID. He tipped the bottle very slightly and was gratified to see Garak beginning to drink from it; he had been afraid he was simply going to let the water dribble down his chin. Afterward, Bashir took a long drink from the bottle himself, placed it on the floor, and then swung one leg up onto the bunk so that he was sitting lengthwise. He took Garak's shoulders in both hands and gently attempted to ease him backward against him. Garak resisted, but Bashir, emboldened now, kept pulling until the Cardassian was leaning back against his chest. Wrapping both arms around Garak's body, Bashir turned him slightly so his bound arms wouldn't be squeezed too uncomfortably between them. The force of the shivering was amazing; it was as if every muscle in the powerful torso was tensing. Even through the layers of clothing, Bashir could feel the cold of Garak's skin - if he was feverish, it was hard to tell.

Garak began to struggle and attempted to shift forward, so Bashir tightened his hold slightly and murmured, "No, don't - I'll help you keep warm." He was going to 'help keep First Officer Garak warm'? He idly wondered what O'Brien would say to that. 'Tuck him in for me, then, will you, Julian? Nighty-night.' Well, O'Brien could go to hell - they all could. What was he supposed to do, just let him suffer like that? He began to remonstrate with his imaginary accusers. Garak was no longer fighting his grasp; in fact, his shivering seemed to have lessened a little under the influence of Bashir's warmer human body temperature.

Bashir closed his eyes and leaned further back so he could rest against the opposite wall. That put him in a more comfortable position in case he dozed off, but he was also supporting more of Garak's heavy weight. The cell door slid open and the guards re-entered; opening his eyes, Bashir saw them grinning and leering down at him and his burden. He stared back defiantly, and spat out, "Go to hell." Ugly Klingon bastards. Ugly, sadistic Klingon bastards. Let them go amuse themselves somewhere else. Bashir was too preoccupied to fight; Garak's presence this close to him was unnerving, and he couldn't call up the necessary fury to battle the guards as well. To his relief, they departed after gathering up the remains of the "meal" and indulging themselves in a few other obviously lewd comments aimed at him. He ignored them, then tried to focus on anything other than Garak's ragged breathing and the nearness of his cool reptilian skin. It seemed that Garak had drifted off into a light sleep; several moments later, Bashir did too, and dreamed that he was back on Terok Nor, eating a dinner that was not much better than the ones he was currently being served.

The odd thing, though, was that when he turned his attention from his plate to the companion sitting opposite him at the small table, the hazy image shimmered and re-formed and finally resolved itself into - Garak. Garak, eating dinner with a Terran, and Bashir felt no more fear than if he had been dining with Jadzia Dax, or even Ben Sisko before his death. It seemed so utterly natural to be sharing a meal with First Officer Garak. More than natural, it felt almost pleasant. As Cardassians go, he's not what you'd call unattractive, Bashir mused. That smile behind his eyes is very - appealing. Why would it have irritated me before? And the eyes - not frightening and cruel at all. Those dark blue eyes are really very gentle; why did I never notice that? I like it when he gives me all his attention that way, those eyes focused on me, his head inclined toward me as he carefully considers everything I'm saying...

Bashir awoke with a start - Garak's body was being roughly pulled up by a guard, who then slung the Cardassian over his shoulder and edged through the narrow doorway. Bashir expected the other guard to follow, then his heart began to pound as he noticed he was making no move to leave. Please, no, I'm not ready for this, Bashir pleaded silently. I'm exhausted, I can't fight you, Garak's dead and I can't even begin to grieve, I can NOT go on like this - the guard approached him and put a large, rough hand on his neck, his fingers tightening around the lower part of Bashir's face, tilting his chin up. Bashir stared fearlessly into his eyes while the blood roared in his ears. So that's how Garak managed to catch his "Klingon disease," he thought. No wonder he always tried to keep the guards away from him - no wonder he didn't want to provoke them by fighting ME. My God, it takes me a long time to catch on. TOO long. He began to struggle against the Klingon, but he was no match for him and spat blood as his face was smashed against the wall. There was a disturbance in the corridor outside, through the open doorway, but Bashir couldn't turn his head to look, as he felt himself again being slammed forward.

\-----

Captain Bashir made his way down the corridor with long, decisive strides. He was very, very glad to be back - he had bathed, and shaved, and had even managed, with help, to give himself a pretty fair haircut. More important to him, though, was the welcome he had received from his comrades in the Rebellion. They had seemed geniunely pleased to see him, not just because he was a returning fighter but because he was a friend. He'd have to remember that, the next time he was tempted to vent his frustrations with the Alliance at everyone around him. For now, though, he had more immediate concerns. Balancing the tray of food with one hand, he approached the entrance to the brig. Jadzia Dax and a young Terran whose name Bashir couldn't remember were sitting outside the entrance, talking.

"Julian!" Dax said, brightening. "You look great today. How do you feel?"

"Fantastic."

"I still can't believe you're back. I mean, to actually be able to do a prisoner exchange - we all told O'Brien he was out of his mind. But it worked, it really worked."

"Either I'm not as important to the Alliance as I had hoped I was, or they wanted someone else a lot more."

"Yes, the Intendant made a wonderful bargaining chip, after we managed to recapture her." She smiled, then hesitated. "Although - I don't know if our new prisoner is going to be any easier to work with."

Bashir recognized her unspoken question. He had refused to leave the Alliance cell without a pledge from the rebels that they'd find a way to include another prisoner in the trade. They had looked at him in amazement, as if the captivity had affected his sanity somehow. "What are we going to do with him, Bashir?" O'Brien had pleaded. "We *won't* get any help or information out of him if he lives, that's certain - we'll have to watch our backs every second he's around. Why do you suppose we're agreeing to give the Intendant back to them?"

Bashir had been adamant; more than adamant, he was almost fanatical in his refusal to leave the cell. So the trade was accomplished, the rebels were allowed to depart, the Intendant was returned to the Klingon Regent's loving embrace, and all Bashir had to do now was manage to walk the thin line between his true emotions and his public facade. Not an easy task. He cancelled the forcefield around the doorway and quickly entered, hearing the power shimmer again behind him.

"Hello, Garak."

Garak looked up, defiant. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in some obviously civilian Cardassian clothing from the station's supply. His mood seemed guarded, but his eyes were hostile.

"How are you feeling?"

"As well as can be expected, 'Captain.'"

"I... I hope you're comfortable." Bashir cleared his throat; he felt awkward, at a loss for words, with Garak's blue hawk-like stare fixed upon him. "I'm glad they were able to help you... some Klingon disease, they said it was. They said you might have died..." His voice trailed off. He felt guilty - this was the first time he had seen Garak since the rescue, and he wondered how compassionate it had been of him to leave Garak completely in the care of other people for five days. But he hadn't been able to summon up the courage to face him until now. And, after all, he told himself, the cell was a far cry from the Alliance accomodations; the bed had a mattress, the food was palatable, there were even bathroom facilities. There was no reason to feel guilty about anything at all. But something was making him uncomfortable... maybe it was the fact that he was free now, delivering Garak's food to the cell, chatting with the prisoner's guards, in a perfect imitation of the Klingons he had been subject to just days ago. Garak was undoubtedly noting and bitterly resenting the change in roles, too; Bashir found it difficult to concentrate on his task.

"I brought you some breakfast."

Garak sighed. "More Terran so-called food, I see. You're too kind."

Bashir felt a flash of resentment. "You'd prefer the kind of meals the Klingons gave us? Fine - I can arrange that." His eyes met Garak's and an unaccustomed tremor passed through him. 'Us' - that word sounded so strange to his ears, but so appropriate, too. He and Garak had *shared* that experience; nothing could change that ever again. "My God," he breathed. He couldn't resent this man - this was his friend. There was a link between them that must not be broken. Garak might not know it, might fight it if he DID know it, but there was a link. Bashir approached the bunk; as he did so, Garak stood up and advanced on him till both men were standing almost eye to eye.

"What do you want with me, 'Captain'? Why am I here?"

I want YOU, Bashir thought miserably. But I can't have you, not like this, not like a Klingon. You have to want me, too. He answered, almost inaudibly, "I wanted to help you. I couldn't let them keep you there. And besides... I thought that you might agree to join us someday."

"Join you? In what?" Garak smiled, but his voice held more than a trace of annoyance.

"In the Rebellion," Bashir faltered, and licked his own dry lips. Garak stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Do you mean to say that I, a Cardassian, am supposed to join you in a Terran rebellion against Cardassia?" He began to laugh. "You may want to return me to the Regent's ship, 'Captain.'"

"Not against Cardassia - against the Alliance. Against oppression. Against slavery." Please listen to me, Garak, he pleaded silently. Don't cut me off like this. We have a link. I was willing to sacrifice myself for you - give me some way to get through to you.

Garak stood motionless. His lips had begun to form a cruel reply, but in his eyes Bashir thought he detected a different answer, buried far inside his soul. He gasped. Was he only imagining it? Why had he never seen it? Why had he refused to see it? 'He could be ours - and now we've got him. Now I'VE got him.' He stepped closer to Garak, reached up, and wrapped both arms around his neck.

 

THE END


End file.
